The Hurricane Sisters: A Novel

Ikhtisar

Hurricane season begins early and rumbles all summer long, well into September. Often people's lives reflect the weather and The Hurricane Sisters is just such a story.

Once again New York Times bestselling author Dorothea Benton Frank takes us deep into the heart of her magical South Carolina Lowcountry on a tumultuous journey filled with longings, disappointments, and, finally, a road toward happiness that is hard earned. There we meet three generations of women buried in secrets. The determined matriarch, Maisie Pringle, at eighty, is a force to be reckoned with because she will have the final word on everything, especially when she's dead wrong. Her daughter, Liz, is caught up in the classic maelstrom of being middle-age and in an emotionally demanding career that will eventually open all their eyes to a terrible truth. And Liz's beautiful twenty-something daughter, Ashley, whose dreamy ambitions of her unlikely future keeps them all at odds.

Luckily for Ashley, her wonderful older brother, Ivy, is her fierce champion but he can only do so much from San Francisco where he resides with his partner. And Mary Beth, her dearest friend, tries to have her back but even she can't talk headstrong Ashley out of a relationship with an ambitious politician who seems slightly too old for her.

Actually, Ashley and Mary Beth have yet to launch themselves into solvency. Their prospects seem bleak. So while they wait for the world to discover them and deliver them from a ramen-based existence, they placate themselves with a hare-brained scheme to make money but one that threatens to land them in huge trouble with the authorities.

So where is Clayton, Liz's husband? He seems more distracted than usual. Ashley desperately needs her father's love and attention but what kind of a parent can he be to Ashley with one foot in Manhattan and the other one planted in indiscretion? And Liz, who's an expert in the field of troubled domestic life, refuses to acknowledge Ashley's precarious situation. Who's in charge of this family? The wake-up call is about to arrive.

The Lowcountry has endured its share of war and bloodshed like the rest of the South, but this storm season we watch Maisie, Liz, Ashley, and Mary Beth deal with challenges that demand they face the truth about themselves. After a terrible confrontation they are forced to rise to forgiveness, but can they establish a new order for the future of them all?

Frank, with her hallmark scintillating wit and crisp insight, captures how a complex family of disparate characters and their close friends can overcome anything through the power of love and reconciliation. This is the often hilarious, sometimes sobering, but always entertaining story of how these unforgettable women became The Hurricane Sisters.

Pratinjau Buku

The Hurricane Sisters - Dorothea Benton Frank

Publisher

PROLOGUE

According to Liz

My husband, Clayton, and I were at the police station getting my mother, Maisie, out of jail for brushing up against the wrong side of the law. Her actual charges were still unclear. She claims it is not against any law in the state of South Carolina to take a llama for a walk on the open road. He was, after all, on a leash. The local police beg to differ, saying this is a case of animal cruelty, endangerment, and reckless behavior. Legal or not, it wasn’t normal. I was glad they brought her in to the police station until I could get there because her behavior surely demonstrates a lack of sound judgment. Or not. Maisie was crazy like a fox and we all knew it. So I sat and waited while Clayton made things right between the Town of Mount Pleasant and Maisie by writing a check.

Anyway, the jailhouse may seem like an insensitive place to begin my story, but I think it’s best if you know the truth about what my family is like. Too many times we all get introduced to people who seem perfectly nice and later on you find out they’re cracked. So, like people used to say, I’m cutting to the chase and telling it like it is. Every single person in this family is highly opinionated. You wouldn’t believe how smart and clever they think they are. And even after the hurricane and all we went through with my daughter, Ashley, Maisie still can’t be trusted. And maybe it’s a good thing.

Clayton came back and sat down beside me on the long wooden bench.

It’s going to be about fifteen minutes until they let her out. You want coffee?

Well, apparently they’re having trouble with the llama. It’s skittish and spitting. I guess I’ll have to go out to the farm and get Joyce, the caretaker, to calm our woolly beast down and take her back. They’ve got her in the dogcatcher’s pen for the moment.

I imagine that’s the best plan. It’s not like you can invite a llama into your SUV to take a seat.

Your momma is really something else, Liz.

You’re telling me? She’s a hundred-and-two-pound sack of pure hell. I can’t wait to hear her side of the story.

All the trouble started on her birthday, Clayton said.

Maybe.

It certainly was the date that marked the occasion when I first realized things weren’t right in my family. I looked at my husband and thought how lucky he was to be alive. And luckier for him I don’t believe in packing a pistol. Clayton reached over and took my hand in his, giving it a good squeeze. I squeezed his back. After all, we were all in this soup together.

I wondered then what Maisie thought about that night. Clearly, we had not shared a point of view about very many things in a thousand years. And this llama business? Honey, it would be front-page news for the Post and Courier and all over Twitter. It might even make national news.

Then I understood it all. It would be perfect if it did.

CHAPTER 1

Maisie—Eighty Candles

Listen, I’m not complaining. I’m an extremely lucky woman to have lived so many years and it was very nice for my daughter and her family to arrange a dinner to celebrate my birthday with me and Skipper. Skipper is the young man who squires me all over town. He’s sixty-five. I know. Bless my heart, I’m quite the scandal.

So there I was at the Charleston Grill, in my best pearls—a triple strand like Barbara Bush wore—sipping my Bombay gin dry martini with two olives, waiting for the others to arrive. I was seated right on the button of five thirty. It was late in May, and even though the streets were bulging with Spoleto Festival patrons and rush-hour commuters, I was punctual. And I live all the way out on James Island. My daughter Liz and her husband, Clayton, live right around the corner on Church Street and they’re late. Isn’t that typical? The younger folks haven’t a clue about the value of time. I, on the other hand, was acutely aware of the passing of each day. Eight decades of birthdays will do that to you.

This afternoon Skipper had to go check on his llama farm way out in Awendaw and that’s at least an hour from my little ranch-style house. Then he insisted on driving the whole way back across the county to pick me up. I would’ve been happy to drive myself to the restaurant but then everyone would’ve thrown a fit. They think I’m a terrible driver. I am not a terrible driver at all. It’s just that on occasion I forget where I left the car. And sometimes I forget that I’m driving. That’s why Liz and Clayton hired Skipper to chauffeur me and we know where that led! I’m sure having the last laugh on that one. And I know where the car keys are stashed should the mood strike to take the wheel again.

Yes, Skipper raises llamas. It could be worse, I imagine. He could be raising snakes. Or alligators. The first time I saw his herd I laughed my head off because they’re so funny-looking, but do you know what? They are the dearest animals I have ever known! Very intelligent and affectionate. Just like, well, just like my Skipper.

I looked at my watch. Five forty-five. Obviously Skipper was still searching for a space to park. I paused a moment as I shook one olive dry and asked heaven to help him navigate the foreign throngs from other climes. Sometimes all those tourists were really just too much. But they’re good for the economy and they can be interesting to talk to from time to time, if you’re interested in life outside of the Lowcountry, which I am not.

Hopefully, my darling grandchildren would arrive before Liz and Clayton so we could share a civil word. And oh blessed sigh of relief, then the imbibing of a second cocktail won’t be noticed by Liz who keeps a running tally. As Mother used to say, I swanny to St. Pete, if the pope had more than one sip of wine from the chalice during the Consecration of the Mass, Liz would have something to say about him too. Someone should count hers, but that’s between us. Miss Nosy Nellie Persnickety. And Mother said swanny because ladies of her generation did not swear.

Why does this fetching lass seem so troubled?

I looked up to see Skipper standing there, smiling. He was so precious with his plaid sport coat and his little Buddha belly. He had a closely trimmed white beard and blue eyes that twinkled like the waters around the Lowcountry.

Hey there, you handsome devil. Come sit by me right this minute!

I’d been thinking about how annoying Liz could be while I stared at a family of tourists, trying to guess if they were American or not. I decided they must be European by the way they held their silverware to cut their food: tines down, knife in the right hand. Probably French, since the father had a very Gallic profile. The mother had a Chanel bag but obviously underprioritized having squeaky-clean hair, and their two children seemed particularly sulky. I should’ve been a sleuth.

With pleasure!

He sat down next to me and kissed my hand, something he did often and something that I loved. Our waiter, Tyler, appeared at our table to take Skipper’s order.

May I bring you a cocktail, sir?

In the most expeditious manner you have! I’ll have a Maker’s Mark Manhattan with one cherry. And what about you, Maisie? Another? That’s a mighty small glass they gave you, isn’t it?

Regrettably, it was a very short pour. I smiled.

Well, let’s see what we can do about that, Tyler said as he picked up my empty glass (Exhibit A) and disappeared.

I smiled and saw my precious granddaughter, Ashley, coming toward us, sashaying across the floor in high heels that reminded me of Betty Boop, platforms with thick heels. She was wearing a sassy black dress that seemed dangerously short. I gave her a little wave.

Happy birthday, Maisie! She leaned down and planted a smooch on my cheek.

Oh Lord, don’t lean over too far, I thought! I reached out with my menu to cover her backside from public view. Unaware of her southern exposure, she put a small gift bag filled with colorful tissue and curled ribbons in front of me.

Thanks, angel! Now, what’s this? I told you, no presents!

It’s just a little something I made for you, she said.

Well then, that’s different!

I watched her take a seat, carefully pulling her skirt beneath her. I remembered how my daughter Liz wore miniskirts when she was young and they made me nervous back then too. But Liz was a professional model with a wild fashion sense, and she could always get away with murder. Although Ashley was tall, thin, and pretty enough to be a model, she was a serious artist and more modest in every sense of the word. Wasn’t she? Maybe I just hated the idea of Ashley growing up. I had to remind myself that she was twenty-three, after all, and perfectly capable of deciding how to dress herself. She loved retro anything that looked like something Jackie O might have worn. There was no law against a beautiful young woman showing some leg, was there? And let’s be honest, Charleston, which at one point in her history had more whorehouses than churches, was not some ultraconservative Middle Eastern country where they shroud their women from head to toe. It was high time Ashley started thinking about snagging a husband. Great legs were an asset. She gets her legs from my side of the family. Actually, in my day I could’ve been a kicker like one of the June Taylor Dancers. I’m not kidding. I still wear high heels. Well, not so high. But Helen Gurley Brown wore heels until she drew her last breath. And fishnet stockings. Sorry, Helen, I can’t see fishnets covering my legs and the barnacles of age.

Shall I open this now or should I wait? I said.

Open it now! she said.

Would you like something to drink, Ashley? Skipper said as Tyler put his drink and mine on the table in front of us.

White wine? Ashley said.

Chardonnay? Tyler asked.

Actually, if you have a New Zealand sauvignon blanc, that would be great, she said.

Right away, Tyler said.

I looked at my granddaughter, arched an eyebrow, and thought, What’s this? Since when does a girl her age know a single thing about wine? It was unbecoming for a young lady to be a smarty-pants. Especially about something like alcohol.

As though she could read my mind, she said, We serve it at all the gallery openings because my bosses love it. She added in a whisper, Besides, it’s the only one I know. Then she smiled that smile of hers that lights up the world.

I began removing sheets of tissue from the bag and to my absolute delight, at the bottom of the bag I found a small canvas encased in bubble wrap and unwound it carefully. It was a miniature landscape of a brilliant sunset on James Island from the best vantage point at the end of my dock. Ashley had inherited my other daughter Juliet’s artistic talents.

Oh! I said. Ashley, sweetheart, it’s absolutely beautiful! What a treasure! And it was. I took her hand in mine and squeezed it.

Yay! I’m so glad you like it! I took a picture of this view one afternoon with my phone and I said to myself, you know what? I’m going to paint this for Maisie!

How talented you are! Here’s to you! Skipper said.

Thank you! Then she sighed dramatically. Maybe someday I’ll live in Montmartre and paint Sacré Cœur! You know, go bohemian?

She toasted with her water glass, smiling so wide with her dimples and all, and I thought, This child doesn’t have a rotten bone in her body. She’s just all goodness and light.

Drink absinthe and smoke little fat cigarettes that smell like a sewer? Skipper said and laughed.

Exactly! she said.

Hush! I’m so proud of you, I said. I’m going to put this on a little stand on my fireplace mantel where I can see it every day!

Proud of whom? For what?

It was the grating metallic voice of my daughter Liz and her husband, Clayton. They had arrived.

Sorry, Maisie, but happy birthday, Clayton said. I had a meeting out at Wild Dunes and traffic . . . well, you know, it’s terrible. Anyway, it’s my fault. Do we have a wine list?

Clayton seated himself at the head of the table and Liz sat on his left, next to Ashley. Tyler handed the wine list to Clayton and put Ashley’s glass of wine in front of her. This left two vacant chairs on the opposite side of the table for my grandson, Ivy, and his mysterious business partner, James, whom we had yet to meet. They were flying in from San Francisco just for me!

Mother? Liz said in a low officious voice. Actually, the reservation was for six o’clock. We’re on time.

No, it was not, I said and wondered why Clayton took the blame if there was no guilt. But the truth about Clayton is that as aggressive as he was in his business, he was nearly completely passive with his family. He hated making waves, especially in public.

Oh, who cares, Mom? Ashley said. What’s the difference?

Before I could tell Liz emphatically that she was wrong, wrong, wrong, Ivy and James arrived, straight from the skies. They were staying with me that night and heaven only knows after that. Ivy looked like a male model, all smiles and hugs with a gorgeous bouquet of flowers for me. James was quite a bit older than Ivy and appeared to be Chinese. Everyone knows Asians are smarter than Caucasians so it was a relief to know Ivy had chosen his partner with his head. Ivy and James owned a men’s store in San Francisco called Ivy’s. I’ve been told it’s quite chic. And all you had to do was look at them to know it was wildly successful.

Happy birthday, Maisie! Ivy said and kissed my cheek.

Before we go any further, you have to know that Ivy is thus called because he is Clayton Bernard Waters IV. That’s the fourth. IV. Hence, Ivy. And he started calling himself that in the third grade, immune to the taunts of the other children. We knew then that he was, well, precocious.

Oh, aren’t these beautiful? Thank you, sweetheart! And you must be James! How are you, dear?

Fine, Miss Maisie! Just fine! Happy birthday!

James had lovely teeth and his eyeglass frames were very interesting. In fact I’d never seen anything like them. I didn’t ask for the sake of embarrassment. What if he had some sort of vision impairment? The poor dear man.

Our friend did the colors. There’s a range of them, Ivy said dramatically. I think they make everyone look like a Glasshole.

"You’re the Glasshole! I think they’re awesome! Stupid dress," she said. She readjusted her hem and sat down again.

Except that they are going to prove very useful for people with disabilities, James said. If someone is deaf, they’ll be able to read what someone else is saying to them in real time because it acts like a monitor and has voice recognition software.

How long are y’all staying? I asked, not understanding one word he said.

What was this Glass thing? A new gadget? Gadgets were taking over the world!

Just until Sunday morning and then we fly to New York for a few days, Ivy said, taking a seat. Does anyone think it’s possible to order a drink? I’m so parched! God, I hate flying commercial!

Just give the keys to the doorman when you leave, Clayton said.

Apparently Ivy was staying in Liz and Clayton’s pied-à-terre in Manhattan. But what did Ivy mean, that he was used to private planes now? Had he won the lottery? Was James treating him to the high life? I have heard that some of these Asian families are extremely wealthy. Ivy began to drain the water glass at his place when our waiter reappeared. What was his name? Tony? No, Tyler! Tippecanoe and Tyler Too. Yes, I know that’s from way before my time but Lord, the games I had to play with my memory to make it work.

Campari and soda with orange, please, Ivy said.

Just Pellegrino for me, thanks, James said. I’m going to wash my hands. Where’s the men’s room? James removed his eyeglasses and handed them to Ivy. Show Ashley how they work.

Good thing I’m on the way out, I said, and everyone ignored me.

You can follow me, sir, our waiter, Tyler Too, said. And I’ll get those drinks out for y’all right away. Did you choose the wine, sir?

No, I need a few minutes, Clayton said without looking up.

As usual, Clayton was reading the wine list too slowly. I was convinced that this annoying habit of his was what drove Liz to vodka.

James walked away with Tippecanoe.

Then the first bomb of the night was launched across the bow.

"Is he just your business partner, son?" Clayton said quietly, without making eye contact.

No, he isn’t. He’s my life partner. Ivy put on the glasses. Okay, he said to Ashley, I bob my head, and see that pink light?

Yeah, Ashley said.

Okay, Glass? Take a picture!

There was a little click and somehow the eyeglasses took a picture.

I can upload it to my iPad or e-mail it or whatever. I think it’s stupid, Ivy said.

Unless you need them, Ashley said. I guess?

There was an awkward but brief silence while Liz continued to process Ivy’s response in regard to his relationship with James.

Oh my God! Liz said, gasping.

What’s wrong? I asked.

She completely disregarded my question and began to bluster until her hair was becoming as disheveled as her face was flushed. We were a family of blushers and blusterers.

"What is it, Mom?" Ashley asked.

"Well, how old is he, for one thing?" Liz said. She was now completely red in the face and neck.

Fortyish, Ivy said.

Kept man, Clayton mumbled, half chuckling.

Hardly, Ivy said. I put in my sixty hours a week. At a minimum. Besides, half the business is mine.

I hope you have that in writing, the ever-cautious Clayton said.

Of course I do. Mother, what’s wrong?

"He’s a . . . well, he’s Asian!" Liz said.

I wondered what the problem was. Skipper looked at me and shrugged his shoulders.

So what? Ashley said. He’s gorgeous!

Hands off, but thank you, Ivy said and laughed. "Yes, he’s from the Chen family of Hong Kong and he’s the most wonderful, thoughtful, and generous person I have ever met. Doesn’t that count?"

You couldn’t find a nice white Episcopalian man? Liz said. Why are you so complicated? Do you expect us to throw you a wedding now?

Um, nooooo, Ivy said.

Get a grip, sister, I said to Liz, thinking, You don’t have that many friends. It’s 2012.

Um, Maisie, actually it’s 2013, Ivy said in a whisper.

It is? I nearly fainted. Wait! Yes, of course it is! Hold the phone! Does that make me eighty-one?

No, you’re still eighty, Mother, Liz said, rolling her eyes.

I ignored her.

She’s right, Maisie, Skipper said. I just did the math.

How do you like that? I just gained a year! This is the best birthday I’ve ever had! Well, so far.

So you’re out there in California just having a gay time with James who wears Glass? Liz said.

Oh, please, Ashley said. "Here we go. Maybe we should be glad he doesn’t care we’re not Asian."

Although we had decades of confirmation, Liz had yet to reconcile with the facts, always hoping against hope that Ivy would meet a nice girl with Herculean powers of persuasion.

Ivy turned to Liz. "Mother, you do know that five percent of the entire population is gay and almost thirty percent of the population around San Francisco is gay? Including Asians."

Of the entire population of the United States? That’s crazy. I don’t buy that for one minute, Clayton said.

It was rare for Clayton to be so insistent.

Neither do I! Liz said and fumbled for her purse.

What are you doing? Ashley said.

I’m going to ask Siri! Liz said.

Who’s Siri? I said.

Siri is this teeny tiny woman from California who lives inside Mother’s phone, Ivy said, laughing. She’s like the great and terrible Oz.

Another know-it-all, I said. Just what the world needs. Siri and Glass.

Watch, Ivy said. They’re going to send me back to conversion camp.

Horrible. Anyway, you’re too old for camp, Ashley said in a somber voice.

I remembered that painful summer when Liz and Clayton sent young, flamboyant Ivy singing all the songs from West Side Story off to some camp that promised to send him home quiet and straight, begging to become a steady and reliable CPA or something. Years of therapy followed. That camp had become a taboo subject and we did not speak of it. So occasionally Ivy saw fit to sort of stick it to Liz and Clayton and who could blame him? Stick away, baby!

I watched while Liz and Clayton fooled around with their phones until some very weird female voice verified Ivy’s claim and then they sat back absolutely deflated as though another space-age gadget had just sucked every last ounce of air out of them.

Astonishing! Who knew? Liz said dryly, shaking her head. Maybe I’ll have a Stoli with a twist, Clayton. By the time you finish reading that wine list, it’ll be Christmas.

"Did you say, please, dear, order a drink for me? Clayton said, sighing, and he slipped his phone back into the pocket of his jacket. He looked at Ivy. I’m impressed. You could go to work for the Bureau of Vital Statistics."

Truly, Ivy said.

"Please, Clayton, please order a Stoli with a twist for me?" Liz said.

Clayton raised his eyes and scanned the room looking for our waiter, gaining his attention with a nod. The vodka was ordered without one iota of concern for replenishing the drinks of the rest of the table. I have never ordered a third martini in my whole life, but someone could’ve asked. It was, after all, my eightieth birthday. And I wasn’t driving.

James returned to the table, Clayton finally chose the wine, Liz drank her first cocktail, then another, and finally we all ordered dinner. The mood had shifted. Liz kept biting her lower lip and staring at James, then quickly averting her eyes, causing him to squirm. She knew it was the height of all bad manners to make your guests feel uncomfortable. She made me want to reach out and give the inside of her arm a good pinch. Then Ivy noticed James squirming like a little worm, figured out why, and became irritable. Clayton was chatting like a magpie with Ivy about Ashley’s continued financial dependency, which irritated Ivy.

She’s still out on the island living in our beach house with her friend for the mere price of the utilities, Clayton said for everyone at our table to hear, including Ashley. She could still live at home. Then her mother wouldn’t be so lonely.

I’m in the room, Dad, Ashley said.

Hush, dear! The whole restaurant can hear you! I said.

Well, it’s harder for kids today, Dad, Ivy said.

Clayton harrumphed. Ivy looked at his father with a very stern expression. I could see his annoyance boiling up to the surface.

"I guess it is hard if you take a job for eight dollars an hour," Clayton added.

Ashley was now completely mortified and struggled to maintain her conversation with Skipper about his llamas, one in particular he named Maisie as a birthday gift to me. It was just so wrong that Clayton and Liz denied their only daughter so much. They should at least give her some respect, especially in front of James, whom they didn’t even know.

Yeah, boy, Skipper said. Maisie the llama is almost as pretty as your grandmother, as llamas go, that is. She has beautiful eyes and she can bat those lashes of hers like a movie star.

Don’t llamas spit? Ivy said.

Sometimes. But a llama is a great gift for the woman who has everything, Ashley said.

She’s darling, I said, trying to lighten the mood.

I’d love to see a picture, Ivy said.

She could be a calendar girl, I said.

Now Ivy laughed and repeated to James what I’d said and James laughed too. Lighten mood—check.

"I wonder if she’s ever going to get a real job," Liz said.

"I do have a real job, Ashley said and looked to James. Don’t you love our family?"

James was now thoroughly uncomfortable. Ivy’s good humor faded right in front of me. Boy, these two were awfully moody.

"Mother? What is the matter with y’all? You and Dad are just determined to peck everyone to death, aren’t you? Like a bunch of chickens! Ivy said. Ashley’s your daughter! And she’s a fabulous painter. Why don’t you and Dad climb off her back for five minutes?"

Really? Clayton said.

Yes! The house was empty anyway! What’s the big deal? No one ever goes there, do they?

Because we all worry about melanoma, Liz said. You know that.

"You’re paranoid about melanoma," Clayton said.

I am not! Liz insisted.

I began feeling anxious. They say we’re in for a busy hurricane season, I said. No one answered. There have already been six with names. Thank goodness they blew out to sea!

Clayton just sat back in his chair and cocked his head to one side like the chairman of the Department of Decorum and laughed.

Well, well, well, Clayton said. It seems at long last that my delicate son has grown a pair. This calls for champagne! Where’s that fellow with the list?

Clayton ordered a bottle of champagne and as soon as the entrees were cleared away, it was poured.

This momentous occasion merits a toast, Clayton said.

Are we really going to toast my family jewels? Ivy said, snickering.

Don’t be vulgar, Liz said.

In Ivy’s defense, James said, smiling and poised, it was Mr. Waters who introduced them into evidence.

Liz gasped. Rarely had I seen anyone speak so boldly to Liz. I sort of loved it.

Are you a lawyer? Ashley said.

Yes, James said, smiling.

Really? Where did you . . . Clayton asked, but James answered before he could finish.

Harvard. I don’t practice too much. But I do a lot of pro bono work.

Wow, Ashley said. Can I try on your Glass again?

Sure, James said and passed the newest thing in gizmos across the table to her.

Oh my goodness! I said, staring at Ashley. When you said that, you looked exactly like my Juliet! Why had I never seen the resemblance before?

Mother! Liz said.

What? I said. Don’t you agree with me? She was just about your age when we lost her, Ashley. Just a few years older.

Let’s not get maudlin, Maisie, Clayton said. This is supposed to be a happy occasion, isn’t it?

I’m not maudlin one little bit! I said. I was just startled, that’s all. I promise, y’all . . . Ashley, turn your head that way to face your daddy.

James was puzzled and said, Excuse me, may I ask, who is Juliet?

My perfect sister who died of an aneurysm at twenty-seven, thirty years ago, Liz said.

Oh. I’m terribly sorry, James said.

It was thirty years ago, Liz said.

Well, it’s like yesterday to me, I said. I always wonder what she would have become had she lived.

President of the United States, Mother. Now, Clayton, you were going to make a toast? Please, dear?

I didn’t say anything to that. President, indeed. Juliet may well have become president. She was sure smart enough. And she could charm the birds right out of the trees. At least she never made a living prancing up and down the runway in bathing suits, I wanted to say. Clayton tapped the side of his glass with his fork.

To Maisie! Happy birthday to the most amazing woman we know!

Hear! Hear! everyone said.

And here came the cake with so many candles I thought if there was a sudden gust of wind we might burn down the restaurant.

It’s so pretty! I said. Thank you! I really shouldn’t eat cake.

YOLO, Maisie! Ashley said. Go for it!

You’re not quoting that Canadian rapper to our grandmother, are you? Ivy said and then leaned out to tell me, YOLO means ‘you only live once,’ Maisie.

I don’t know about Canadian raptors, some kind of migrating bird, I imagine, but it was Mae West who coined the phrase. I gave them my very best smile.

And, Ivy? Just to set the record straight, you’re not the only man in the room who’s living in sin, Skipper said.

Not now, I said, quietly. We can tell them later.

Tell us what? Liz said.

Yes, what? Ivy said. He seemed slightly miffed. Not that I consider myself to be living in sin.

Sweet Jesus of Nazareth, Liz said and while all the color drained from her face, she drained all the champagne in her flute. She held it out for Clayton to refill, which he did.

Now, let’s have dessert, shall we? I said, trying to gloss over the elephant in the room.

Indeed, let’s! said Ivy, suddenly filled to the brim with mirth.

The cake was very pretty, all covered in marzipan hydrangeas of every color, just like the ones I grew. All the waiters sang and my family sang along too. Ivy and Ashley took pictures with their phones and the Glass and I smiled, thinking again I was very lucky to be surrounded by so many lovely people who cared about making me happy in that moment. We weren’t perfect. I knew that. And I knew it was even more incumbent on me to see about Ashley’s welfare and state of